Chapter Six
EVA
For the first time in nearly three weeks, I can finally relax.
Since the Vikings game, my father has been running me ragged.
He’s testing me by dumping an avalanche of logistical scheduling, travel coordination, and unedited broadcast onto my desk.
He wants to see if I’ll buckle under the pressure of the network’s top tier.
No producer in the history of the network has gotten this much direction from top brass.
But I’m a Carrington. I’m not complaining, and I certainly won’t let my dad or anyone else see me sweat. I want to prove I can handle the throne he’ll eventually hand down to me someday.
But tonight, I can have some fun. And by some miracle in the league’s schedule, Aston is off this weekend too.
Some of my friends that I’ve grown up with in elite social circles, all from families as famous and rich—or richer—as mine, dragged me out tonight. Despite our high-society statuses, these girls are all pretty down-to-earth, like I am.
They are, however, completely different from my friends I made at Walker, but I like spending time with them occasionally. Honestly, I’m usually too busy to hang out. Ellis and I are the only ones who actually have careers, and we both work in our family businesses.
Tonight, we’re at Obsidian Court in Central Park South.
The venue is a crown jewel of Manhattan’s nightlife.
It’s a masterclass in dark opulence. The ceilings are low, and the floors are a rich, chevron-patterned oak that gives the space its name, while the walls are covered in provocative artwork and mirrors that catch the amber glow of the lights.
To get through the velvet ropes outside, you either need an ironclad reservation, a famous face, or a direct line to someone who can sneak you in.
Tonight, the main room is packed with high-fashion models, Wall Street multi-millionaires, and athletes I recognize hiding in the VIP alcoves under the haze machines.
I lean back against the plush leather banquette of our table, swirling the vodka soda in my highball glass, when my phone buzzes against my thigh. I pull it up to the table, the screen illuminating my face.
Aston: We just finished dinner. Where you at?
Eva: At Obsidian Court.
Aston: Never been there. Is that in Central Park? Who are you with?
Eva: Yeah. I’m with my friends Ellis, Cher, and Devon. You should come. Bring your friends.
Aston: I’m with some of the guys from my team, including Brody. That gonna be a problem?
Eva: Aren’t we all friends, Aston? *wink*
Aston: Give me thirty minutes. Don’t leave.
I smile, the alcohol loosening me up, blurring the boundaries I intentionally put in place not to be seen with Aston. I lock my phone and put it back in my small bag on my lap, then look over at my friends.
“Eva.” Cher laughs, waving a manicured hand in my face. She’s already half drunk, her cheeks flushed as she adjusts her dress. “Who are you texting?”
“Just checking on a production schedule,” I lie smoothly, taking another sip of my drink. “What are we talking about?”
“Ellis has a new guy,” Devon chimes in, leaning across the table, her eyes sparkling in the soft light. “Tell her about your hockey god, Ellis.”
She lets out a laugh, brushing her dark curls over her shoulder. Ellis is the global brand director for Overtime Sports, her family’s company. She oversees high-level marketing campaigns for elite athletes, leveraging their athletic credibility.
“He’s not a hockey god. He’s just a defenseman for the New Jersey Reds.
Six-four, lethal on the ice, and a body that belongs in a museum.
We’ve been messing around for a few weeks.
It’s not a big deal. But let me tell you, hockey players have a different kind of stamina.
My vagina is pretty much bruised at this point. ”
“Is he coming out tonight?” I ask, laughing.
“Maybe after a team dinner or something.” Ellis shrugs. “You know how they are, Eva. They like to travel in packs.”
“That they do,” I mutter, thinking about my own defensive lineman who’s been dominating my entire life, it seems.
Thirty minutes later, the heavy velvet curtain separating our VIP section from the main floor opens. The bottle-service girl steps aside, and a small group of massive men piles in, making the space feel really tight.
Aston is at the front, looking delicious in a dark gray henley, jeans, and, yep, cowboy boots. His jawline looks sharp in this light, and his hair is slightly messy, likely from the wind outside. Behind him are three of his teammates, who, of course, I know, including Brody Vaughn.
Aston’s eyes scan the table quickly and lock onto mine. A slow smirk spreads across his lips in the kind of way that makes my stomach do somersaults.
“Ladies,” Aston says, tipping his head, his deep voice cutting through the music in the club as he slides in to sit next to me.
He introduces his teammates, who immediately slide into the booth next to Cher and Devon, but Brody sits on the end, across from Ellis.
Within minutes, the drinks are flowing, and the guys are ordering another round of premium tequila.
And while his friends are throwing back shots, I notice Aston barely touches his.
He keeps a single glass of reposado in his hand, taking slow sips.
He might be out having fun, but he’s always in control, just like he was in college.
“Dance with me.” I lean into him as a heavy beat drops.
Aston doesn’t say a word. He just sets his glass down on the table and takes my hand in his, leading me out onto the crowded dance floor.
The center of Obsidian Court is a sea of moving bodies, but the minute Aston’s hands grip my waist, the crowd seems to melt into the blur of the colored lights.
He pulls me flush against his chest, blocking out the rest of the room.
I’m completely enveloped by his size, and my face rests just beneath his jaw.
“You look beautiful tonight, Carrington,” he says, voice gravelly in my ear, as we move together to the music.
My hips roll against his, and the electricity that’s been building between us for weeks is just about ready to explode.
“Thank you, Griffith.” I stand close to him, my hands sliding up his chest, feeling the solid muscle beneath. “You look good yourself.”
“You flatter me, Honeybee.” He tilts his head back to look at me. “You know, you grinding against me in the middle of this crowded club makes me want to take you out of here,” he says and leans in again, his lips brushing against the shell of my ear, sending a shiver down my spine.
“Patience,” I tease, and our eyes lock. The tension is so thick that I have to clear my throat before I speak. “We’ve been on this dance floor for a while now. I, uh, need to go to the restroom. Be right back.”
“I’ll go with you,” he says instantly, his hold on my waist tightening.
“Aston, it’s the ladies’ room. You can’t come in.”
“I know. I’ll wait in the hallway,” he says, already guiding me through the crowd toward the restrooms.
The hallway is dimly lit, lined with dark wallpaper. The line is four girls deep, all of them looking at themselves in the mirrors of their compacts or on their phones.
Aston stands next to me, his massive frame crowding the space, resting his shoulder against the wall while he looks at me.
“So …” I say, leaning into his side, my head tilting up to look at him. My tipsiness is setting in now, making me feel bold and curious. “When you’re not on the field or in high-class nightclubs, what do you like to do? Do you want to travel or anything like that?”
Aston lets out an amused laugh, his hand coming to rest on the small of my back.
“Travel? Hmm. I’m not really sure. I’m a pretty simple guy.
I wouldn’t mind seeing Europe, maybe a tour of Italy.
But honestly, I’m just a country boy at heart.
I miss home. Quiet nights, fresh and open air, no traffic, no cameras, just the big Texas sky. ”
I watch him talk. The lift of his full lips, the rugged edge of his scruffy jaw, and the thick sweep of his dark lashes, contrasting with his blond hair, can drive a girl wild.
“You’re really pretty—you know that?” I mumble, my voice dripping with drunken sincerity.
Aston blinks, then barks out a laugh. “Pretty, huh? I’m a six-two block of muscle, Eva. I’m not sure pretty is the right word.”
“You know you’re hot,” I say, my fingers reaching up to trace the collar of his shirt. “You’re fucking gorgeous. It’s actually kind of annoying.”
His eyes darken, the humor vanishing, replaced by an intensity that makes me catch my breath. “You drunk, Carrington?”
“I mean … maybe a little,” I whisper right before his mouth crashes to mine.
Our kiss is deep, hot, and tastes like tequila. He pulls me against his chest, his tongue sliding against mine in a slow, agonizing rhythm that makes my knees go weak. My hands tangle in the hair at the back of his neck, and I completely forget where we are.
“Um, excuse me? Some of us actually have to pee.” An annoyed voice breaks us apart.
A girl in a sequined dress is staring at us, arms crossed, irritation written all over her face.
Aston pulls back slowly, an unbothered smirk on his face as he looks at her, then back down at me. His thumb swipes over my bottom lip in an attempt to fix my smeared gloss. “Go ahead. I’ll be right here.”
I step into the bathroom and take care of business. When I walk out, Aston is exactly where he said he would be.
He takes my hand naturally, leading me down the hallway toward the main room, his large body clearing a path through the packed crowd. As we get to the velvet ropes of our VIP section, my job pops in my mind as I realize we’re walking hand in hand, directly toward his teammates and my best friends.
I drop his hand and fiddle with the hem of my dress.
Aston stops, looking down at his hand, then back to me, an amused eyebrow raised. “Really, Eva? Dropping me that quick, huh?”